


A Gift for the Tsar

by Nomanono



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 13:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9236909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomanono/pseuds/Nomanono
Summary: Viktyr is his nation's greatest pride, but to the conquerer go the spoils.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As always, apologies to native Russian speakers for any errors in translation/transliteration. Corrections welcome. 
> 
> **Relevant Vocabulary** :
> 
>  _moy_ \- 1st person possessive pronoun (my)  
>  _knyaz_ \- Prince or King  
>  _knyaginya_ \- Queen

Viktyr sat before a broad vanity, three frost-gilded mirrors showcasing the day’s work. He’d been under the ministrations of his grooms since dawn, starting with a freezing bath where he was scrubbed with various salts and sugars and then rinsed in warm milk. Throughout the day his nails had been filed, polished, lacquered, his brow had been plucked, his eyes lined in kohl and his lips brushed with a dilute of nettle that would make them redden and plump. They’d dressed him in the finest furs and leathers, skin-tight to showcase his form, but dyed in colors he’d never worn before. Now he sat still, chin tilted down, while one of the grooms brushed his hair. It draped from his head to the small of his back, and his scalp tingled with every pass of the comb. 

The brushing paused as the door opened and the tap of leather boots filled the room. Viktyr saw the beautiful, flowing grace of his monarch in the mirror and bowed his head.

“ _Moy knyaginya_ ,” he murmured, echoed more formally by the groom.

“My fae,” she said to him, bending to take a kiss from his full lips. To the groom, she held out a small box. “The final touches.”

Inside, three spools of silk gleamed: the ceremonial ribbons for his hair. For all the times he’d been prepared for the ice, he’d never seen purple silks before, nor the turquoise beads that dripped from them. He was used to the crimson and gold of the harvest, to the white and seafoam of the glacial calving, even the black of midwinter’s long dark. But these?

“What ceremony is this?” Viktyr asked as the groom plucked the ribbons from the box and set them on the vanity. The _knyaginya_ turned her chin to him, and her visage, which Viktyr had watched sadden over the course of his coming of age, looked broken and resigned. 

“One that has not happened in generations, my fae,” she said, trailing her finger through his stunning, silver hair. Her own was the same color, longer still, marking them as part of the Serebryan ice lands. The only difference was that hers flowed freely beneath her crown, while his was being bound and braided for display. “You are doing us all an incredible service; it will be carved in the glacier's wake.”

She touched his cheek, like a beacon, and left. Viktyr turned back to the mirror, felt every pull of the ribbons as the groom threaded them with his locks, and wondered why her words felt more foreboding than reassuring.

—

The royal rink was a perfect circle embraced on three sides by the Serebryan palace. Legend claimed it was the tip of one of the great glaciers, flattened long ago by Serebryan's founders. As his monarch’s favored fae, Viktyr was the only skater to call this rink home, but when his guards led him from his quarters he found the rink unfamiliar. It, too, was decorated in rich purple colors, flags held aloft on pine beams stitched with a golden snow leopard. 

“What do they mean?” Viktyr tried to ask one of his guards, but they were not allowed to speak to him, and he was left with a fluttering stomach and growing sense of unease. 

They walked him to the edge of the ice, where his handler waited with his blades. A pinch at his ankle and he lifted his foot, then the next, until the skates were fastened to his feet. He turned to the ice, and with a nod from his guard, stepped out. 

The murmur of the crowds quieted, far more courtiers than he was used to surrounding the rink. It was lined in bright lanterns, the scent of whale oil pervasive, and he could not see past to discern just who was in attendance. 

In the center of the circle there was a jewel beneath the ice, a glistening sapphire to represent Serebryan’s glory. Viktyr swiveled around the jewel and came to rest with his blade atop it, his figure settling into a crouch, arms tucked, like an ice flower about to blossom.

The drums came first, and on the second measure Viktyr lifted a single hand skyward. His spine followed, sprouting from the ice and taking his first push off. As the orchestra joined, Viktyr gathered his speed, facing backwards until the moment his blade nicked the ice. He flew into the air, leaving a spray of shaved ice in his wake. The crowd gasped, and from that alone Viktyr knew they were foreigners. 

It had only been a triple, after all. 

He curved around the circle, feet pointing outward in either direction as he leaned forward and then leapt again. His feet knew all the ways to caress the ice, to glide in little brackets and horseshoes that years of training made effortless. Behind him, the tails of his braids and woven ribbons fluttered. 

Viktyr came around the rink to the grandstand, where the _knyaz_ and _knyaginya_ usually sat. But in their seats was someone new - not the silver-haired monarchs but a tall, gruff blond man in a deep purple coat. Beside him, a young boy, even fairer haired and far thinner boned but with the same noble features. Both wore stern expressions, eyes narrow as they watched him dance.

He didn’t have enough speed, startled as he was, for his next jump, and had to sacrifice two turns. A flash of anger on his handler’s face and Viktyr redoubled his efforts, sailing from one edge of the rink to the next and landing his proudest figure: a quadruple loop into a triple salchow. Here he heard the gasps he’d come to love from his crowd, and by the end of it he settled, like the last keen of a swan, above Serebryan’s jewel.

——

The guards stepped forward and Viktyr had no choice but to do the same. 

_When you reach him, you will kneel, then bow_ , his handler had said.

The guards stopped but Viktyr continued, walking through the throne room in the soft calf-skin slippers they always rewarded him with after performances. He’d caught his breath by now, but still felt the thrum of the dance and the chill of sweat beneath his costume. He reached the dais where the thrones sat, never once making eye contact. He dropped to his knees, then laid his palms before him and bowed his forehead to the ground. 

“ _Moy tsar_ ,” Viktyr said. 

Knyaz Alexei stood beside the throne, a small measure of comfort for Viktyr, who was used to his attentions. Neither the _knyaginya_ nor the young boy were present.

“Let me present our greatest gift to you, _moy tsar_ ,” the _knyaz_ said, and Viktyr’s eyes shot up to him in shock, if not betrayal. “To illustrate our esteem for Rossiya’s rulers and our gratitude for the protection they offer.” Viktyr was used to some form of fondness in the _knyaz_ ’ eyes, but here he met nothing, only a stony distance.

“So this is Serebryan’s famous fae,” the visitor - no, Rossiya’s tsar - said. Viktyr still could not meet the tsar’s eyes. He stared instead at the base of the throne, near the tsar’s jewel-studded boots. “Come to me.”

Viktyr did not know what to do, so he rose with all the elegance he could muster and stepped up to the throne. His _knyaz_ ’ throne. He felt a fire rear up in his gut. Why was his _knyaz_ standing there beside this — 

Viktyr swallowed. Anger was never befitting a fae. 

The tsar twirled his finger and Viktyr turned to showcase his body. His toe pointed inside the slipper as he came to rest again, a more dynamic position than his earlier stance. 

“Serebryan’s diplomacy is always delicate,” the tsar mused, offering his knuckles to Viktyr. Viktyr wasn’t familiar with the gesture, but found himself bending, touching his lips to the signet ring. The tsar twisted his hand up as Viktyr was about to move away and caught him by the chin. Viktyr froze, and his eyes finally lifted to the tsar’s. 

“Kneel beside my throne, fae, and let me get used to the feel of you.”

——

Other gifts were brought to the throne after Viktyr, the best of all Serebryan’s crafts and mastery. 

Viktyr’s mind was blank, wondering how it came to be that he knelt beside the throne, at the foot of the foreign tsar. He could sense fear in those around him, an aversion to the tsar, but all he could process was that the tsar’s hand had come to his hair, and he was slowly toying with one of the ribbons. His finger twirled around the extra, flicked at the turquoise beads, and on occasion slowly pulled, until Viktyr's neck had to tense to keep his head in position.

Viktyr shivered. His legs were numb from kneeling, and his body was chilled. His costume was fine to wear for short periods, when he was active on the ice, or when he was in his quarters with the fire ablaze, but he was not supposed to wear it for so long, nor so late, when Serebryan’s glacial chill consumed the palace.

For all that, the tsar made him colder still. 

By the time the tsar finally rose, the court dismissed, Viktyr could hardly keep his trembling invisible. He followed when the tsar beckoned, sparing only a brief backward glance for his guards and his _knyaz_. 

It was the last time he saw them. 

——

“All of these things, worthless,” the tsar said, gesturing to the assembled gifts. He picked up a porcelain samovar in two hands, hefted it, and then let it fall to his feet and shatter. He let out a disgusted grunt. “All of Serebryan, and only you with any value.”

Viktyr shivered, still so cold, so incredibly cold, and now he knew why he wore Rossiya’s colors. Now he knew why the rink was painted in purple and cyan, why the tsar had sat in his _knyaz_ ’ throne. 

They were conquered, and Viktyr stood shaking in the tsar’s chambers, the white flag of surrender, the gift to beg gentleness from their captor. 

“ _Moy tsar_ ,” Viktyr murmured, not knowing what else to say. 

"Tomorrow we begin our journey back to Rossiya, where you will teach your secrets to my son," the tsar said. "He is no Serebryan fae, but I am confident he can learn to speak to the ice as you do."

Viktyr thought of the young boy he'd seen at the rink, the stern eyes. He'd looked part fae, if such things were possible, though his hair was not Serebryan silver. 

“You’re shaking” the tsar noted at last, coming up to lay his hands on Viktyr’s shoulders. The heat was a godsend, yet only emphasized how cold he was elsewhere. 

“I should have been redressed after my performance,” Viktyr murmured, “or moved to a fire. My handler —”

“We will see to it that his knowledge is retained,” the tsar said. He gestured to the yawning fireplace near the bed. “Warm yourself.”

Viktyr glanced at the tsar briefly, then stepped on pointed toes to the hearth. He all but threw himself into it, settling so close he would only be able to endure the heat a minute.

“Alexei tells me you are an adept companion,” the tsar said. Viktyr was too focused on the fire, on the warmth finally sinking back into his limbs, to listen to the tsar's motions.

Alexei. Serebryan’s _knyaz_ no more. 

“I pleased him as I was able,” Viktyr said. And the _knyaginya_. He’d warmed their bed frequently since his coming of age. It was why his quarters were a part of the royal palace. 

It was why the guards would not let him leave. 

In truth, he had been prisoner most of his life, escorted to the ice where his handler ran him aground, then pampered and preened for the pleasure of the court and its monarchs. Perhaps the tsar was simply a new monarch, and all would continue as before. He would be dolled up and made beautiful for them. He would dance across the ice for them. And then, as needed, he would be gifted to this noble or the other - a night to commune with the fae, his _knyaz_ used to say. And Viktyr would go, and be beautiful, and they would enjoy him.

A bare arm came around Viktyr’s waist and began to unlace the tight, almost corseted jacket of his costume. The heat of the fire before him was matched by the heat of the tsar behind him, and Viktyr found himself frozen between them. 

The tsar’s hands were not the silky, aristocratic things of the _knyaz_. They were weathered, calloused: a worker’s hands -- or a warrior’s. Viktyr wasn’t used to the texture, found it harsh against his skin as his clothes were removed. 

“Did you like wearing my colors, fae?” the tsar asked. 

“ _Moy tsar_ ,” Viktyr deflected. As easily ‘of course’ as anything else.

“My turquoise matches your eyes.”

The tsar’s lips came to his neck and Viktyr tilted his head to make space for them, almost on instinct. He knew he should twist to face the tsar. He knew he should return the kisses, should start to stroke his hands along the tsar’s body. 

But he found himself staring into the flames, remembering Alexei’s smirk when he would step off the ice. 

“Why are you crying?” the tsar asked as a tear splashed on his forearm. 

Viktyr adjusted the angle of his head, trying to let the tears sink back into the corners of his eyes. 

“My country, _moy tsar_ …” Viktyr murmured. 

“Your country is Rossiya now.” 

Viktyr let out a single sob, stifled by the tsar’s lips. He couldn’t return the kiss, but he didn’t pull away - not then, and not for the rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is marked as complete, because it was just weird brain drabble, but there's actually a full outline for Viktyr's time as Rossiya's new fae - training Tsarevich Yuri and then being used as part of diplomatic relations with Nippon. If there's any interest, let me know.


End file.
